Metamorphosis
by GraveDigger Resurrection
Summary: “Smile!” Mark calls then, and the camera is on her, and Joanne is throwing ridiculous poses and laughing while Mimi catcalls in the background and Roger cheers. MCJJ


TITLE: Metamorphosis  
RATING: PG-13  
PAIRING: Mark/Joanne  
PROMPT: 27, Tattoo  
SUMMARY: "Smile!" Mark calls then, and the camera is on her, and Joanne is throwing ridiculous poses and laughing while Mimi catcalls in the background and Roger cheers.  
A/N: My first Rent-fic. Written for the 50rentedsmiles lj community. The pairing is a bit unorthodox, but I ask you to give it a chance.Written for Danni, who is the queen of the world, or at least one of it's high overladies. Love you, doll.

* * *

The fourth time they break up, Joanne swears that it's the last. She makes a promise to herself (and yells it furiously at Maureen) that they are really finished this time– really.

It's not even that she's in love with Maureen, Joanne decides. Because, honestly, how can you fall in love with a wisp of smoke you can't keep to yourself? A gorgeous, sexy wisp, perhaps, but still not something that could ever _belong_ to any one person. And no one owns Maureen, of that Joanne is certain, maybe not even Maureen herself. She's so busy burning as bright and hot as she can, flaring up for the briefest moments of so many people's lives, that Joanne wonders if there's anything left of Maureen that hasn't already been burned once. Joanne wonders, too, if there's any_one _who hasn't been burned by Maureen, like Joanne has been, like Mark.

Poor Mark, Joanne thinks idly, as she flips through the laminated pages under her fingertips. Mark hasn't just been burned by Maureen, he's been _fried_ by her. Torched into a pile of undignified ashes that Maureen promptly ground her heel on. Because Mark, Joanne decides, was in _love_ with Maureen, not just... just what? In lust with? Whatever driving, passionate force that drew Joanne to her and was desperate and all-consuming, but certainly wasn't love.

He's done reasonably well without Maureen, of course, Joanne knows. Despite Mark's boyish, almost delicate appearance, Joanne thinks that he's probably the strongest out of all of them. She thinks Mark has to be, dealing with Benny's bureaucratic bullshit and all of Roger's drama and Angel's death on top of being dropped by Maureen like a pair of worn-out leather pants. Maybe he's even done better because Maureen left him, because it means he's free of all her lying, flirtatious, cheating garbage, and all the ups and downs that go with dating a blazing flame like Maureen. Joanne hopes that Mark sees himself as free of Maureen because that's how Joanne has decided to look at things for herself.

She's free of Maureen's laughter and her melodramatic tears, and she's finally free of her own jealousy. Joanne is setting herself free of all the things that make her feel like she can't breath right, like she can't smile because of the iron clamp around her throat. Joanne is not a bohemian, and she's not a lawyer, and she's _not_ her father's 'little princess' no matter how much he wants her to be. She's not Maureen's girlfriend, and she's not responsible for anyone or anything but herself, Joanne decides, her brown eyes gazing down intently at a page, a tiny smile flickering on her lips as she lights on the one she knows she wants. She's breaking free of all the labels that have held her cocooned inside her own trap for so long, and from now on she is going to be nothing but _Joanne._

"You picked one yet?" The gruff voice startles her out of her thoughts, and she looks up quickly, her smile widening as she points to the bottom left of the page.

"Yeah. I want that one." The man nods, sighing a little, it seems, and Joanne wonders how many people have chosen that exact same one before, giggling, and maybe drunk, and how cliche it all must seem to him– an _artist._ But Joanne doesn't care what he thinks about cliches or anything else, because it's all more labeling and more fucking pressure that she doesn't need, doesn't want, and wont put up with any more.

Joanne is breaking free.

XXXXXXXX

The reactions Joanne gets at the loft bring a grin of satisfaction to her face. Mimi, long limbs dangling over a chair-back gives her a knowing, sly look, and hugs her, squealing a little, and demanding a second look, none of which surprises Joanne, because she knows Mimi understand what this is all about better than anyone else. Roger, one hundred percent testosterone, looks shocked and impressed and maybe a little turned on when she shows it to him, which is typical and delights her all the same. Collins just shakes his head and smiles, asking jokingly just how many beers she'd had to have before she got it, which makes Joanne laugh and wink at him, because, even after all the shit life has thrown at him, it seems to her that Collins still knows how to love life the most.

Mark, on the other hand, stares at it with an expression that Joanne can't quite place. Understanding and warmth mixed with a tinge of laughter and a flare of...of something Joanne never expects to see in Mark's eyes, at least not when Maureen isn't around, and she decides to ignore. And then, of course, he makes a dash for his camera, declaring this a sight that can't go undocumented.

So she waits patiently for him to start rolling, while Roger digs up some plastic cups and booze- whatever kind he and Mark could afford this month- and declares that they should make a toast in honor of her.

"To Joanne's loss of sanity!" He declares, raising his cup to her and grinning. Mimi and Collins repeat the mantra, laughing, and they all take a drink, but Mark just sets his aside, shaking his head and smirking.

"Smile!" Mark calls then, and the camera is on her, and Joanne is throwing ridiculous poses and laughing while Mimi catcalls in the background and Roger cheers. She lifts up the back of her shirt and Mark zooms in, chuckling when Joanne does a wiggle with her sides that has the fresh tattoo on her back fluttering across her muscles in a way that might have even done Maureen proud, and even if Joanne doesn't give a _damn_ what makes Maureen proud, the teasing mutter from Mark of "The camera loves you, honey," makes her smile and spin around in a wild circle all the same.

A dizzying, heady feeling is consuming Joanne as she spins there, in the middle of the loft amid laughter and shouts and swallows of cheap alcohol, and she suddenly thanks God that, for all the things she's breaking free from, these people are still with her.

XXXXXXXX

Joanne finds herself staring intently down at more pages a few weeks later, but this time, they're the glossy pages of some law journal that she doesn't care about. She's curled up on the sagging couch in the loft, where she seems to be spending more and more of her time, lately, since it's the one place where every one else is, and Maureen, well, _isn't._

She's upset, even though she doesn't want to be, and she wishes Roger was here with Mimi, with him pouring his soul out through his guitar strings and Mimi singing or dancing or just _being_, which always seems to be more than enough with Mimi. But they're out for an afternoon on the town, which mostly just means being lost in each other's eyes out in public. So Joanne is here in the quiet left with her dull journal and the silent Mark, who seems to have gotten lost in the clutter of his own kitchen.

She's squinting down at the pages, trying to ward off a headache and a fit of melancholy, when her nose is suddenly assaulted by waves of steam and the scent of hot tea. She looks up, confused, and comes face to face with Mark, who is wearing a nervous smile and holding a chinked mug full of soothing wonder. "You look like you could use a little hot caffeine," he tells her, matter-of-factly, and offers her the mug.

Joanne can do nothing more than stare between the blonde and the dilapidated yellow mug for a moment, first because she had no idea Mark and Roger could ever have anything as homey as _tea_ in their loft, and second because it's possibly the nicest gesture Joanne has ever received. In the end, she can only think to say "thanks" and take it from him as he sits down on the couch beside her. The first drink is scalding still, and it burns a path all the way down the back of her throat as she revels in the bitter-sweet taste of it that reflects her mood so perfectly.

There is silence for a moment, other than her slow sips and his soft breathing that soothes her more than the tea. She can tell from his expression that he understands, and can tell, because he's, well, because he's _Mark_, that he would like nothing more than to fix the problem for her. For some odd reason, that idea makes her throat tighten just a bit, and she hurriedly takes another sip.

"Maureen found out about the tattoo." He doesn't put it as a question, for which Joanne is grateful, because she's been questioned enough the past few days. Screamed at, mostly, but she's sure most of it was _meant_ to be in question form, anyway.

"Cornered at the Life Café," she snorts back, disgusted, embarrassed, angry. Mostly, she just wonders who the hell told Maureen in the first place, because it _is_ Maureen, after all, and for all Joanne knows, her coy ex-girlfriend might very well have found out while getting drunk with the guy who _gave_ her the tattoo. But Joanne doubts it. She doubts it very much, in fact, when her mind is filled with images of a loud, raucous Roger, whose tongue has always been loose and poison-tipped...

"Sometimes Roger's mouth just...gets ahead of his brain." Mark speaks her thoughts aloud, sounding apologetic and embarrassed, and even though it's not his fault, she's not surprised, because that's just who Mark is. He's the Watcher, and the Caretaker, and the Listener, and most of all, Mark is the one who is Responsible. For everything and everyone, no matter the drama or the dread.

Joanne's simmering fury at the rocker is suddenly mellowed, tempered with a fondness for the awkward blonde in front of her. "Yeah well, _all_ of him had better stay the ahead of me for a few days, or I'll kick his sorry ass." But she's smiling, if a little bitterly, as she says it, and she can feel some of the tension flow out of him. She even gets a brief, lovely smile back, one that sends a brief, frightening little thrill through the very center of her soul.

"So...how'd she take it?" Joanne knows the he already knows the answer, knows she doesn't really need to say anything at all, but Mark is the Listener, and is gifting her with a chance to open up, extending the compassion that has always been so rare in Joanne's life that she is once again ashamed at her own feelings of startled breathlessness.

It doesn't mean she wants to talk about it, though, and so instead of pouring out the tiring, tedious tale, she replies with a dry, sharp, "What do you think?" And she can tell from his expression that he understands, and he says nothing. A silence settles over them, making Joanne feel like she's been wrapped in a soft, warm blanket of understanding, and she thinks that the moment might be wonderful except for the ugly memory of the scene at the Life Café that keeps rolling over and over again through her exhausted head.

If Joanne were to tell the story to Mark, she would tell him that Maureen wasn't angry, or even pissed. Maureen was_ beyond _pissed. It was a display that was both amusing and infuriating, because what _right_ does Maureen have to be angry after all her leather and sparkle and outright flaunting, and what right does she have to be pissed when they are _over_? Of course, Joanne knows the answer to that last one. With Maureen, over was never _really_ over. But the rest of it makes Joanne think that maybe Maureen _was_ a little more serious about her than she'd thought, and maybe Joanne ought to rethink things altogether. Instead, she just takes another sip of tea.

"Well, you _did_ think the nipple ring was gross," Mark ventures after a moment, and Joanne's temper rears up to lash out angrily before she realizes that he is actually mocking _Maureen_, and she lets out a weak chuckle. "So of course, she hates the tattoo. Otherwise, she wouldn't be Maureen."

"And you?" She asks lightly, but somewhere inside she realizes it really matters to her what he thinks, because she realized when she first showed everyone the tattoo, that even though Mimi understood the best, Mark was the only one who _knew_.

"Oh, I thought the whole nipple ring idea was fantastic," He returns, smirking, and she gives in to the urge to roll her eyes because it's just fun, and Joanne needs a little of that right now.

Everything that has to do with Mark seems to be fun to Joanne, lately. Fun, or warm, or sweet, or understanding, or...she breaks of her train of thought, completely startled, and takes a hurried sip of her tea, strangling on the liquid in her utter confusion. She leans forward, coughing, and Mark pats her on the back a bit awkwardly, and she's so busy with her watering eyes and trying to get her breathing normal again that she doesn't notice that he's stopped until she feels cool fingers brush gently against the small of her back where her shirt has ridden up, over the orange and black design that has just now stopped being sore. The touch sends a prickle of gooseflesh down her arms, and Joanne is so beside herself that she almost chokes again.

"I think it's perfect," Mark says very softly, his voice a little lower and a little rougher than normal. He traces his lightly callused fingers along the shape again, before he pulls away completely, standing up and retreating back into the kitchen without another word, leaving Joanne with her goose bumps and rapidly cooling tea and a bewildered knot in her stomach.

XXXXXXXX

Joanne avoids Mark for the next week, too confused to face him. He's made her question the one label she's kept for herself after Maureen left, the one she's been wrapped up in since she first danced the clumsy steps with the French Ambassador's daughter in her dorm room, and has worn comfortably like a second skin ever since.

Being anal retentive is what has always made Joanne such a good lawyer, but now it's driven her to distraction, forcing her to pick apart every single moment she's been around the younger blonde and analyze it until she's sick to her stomach. She's scrutinized his smile and his laugh, analyzed his voice, and memorized the touch of his fingertips against the small of her back, and his understanding of exactly what the picture represents. She's examined how comfortable he makes her feel, and how much he understands her, how well he knows her. She's sliced apart the fact that the only real thing they have in common is that they've both been torn apart by Maureen, and keeps coming back to the mug of hot tea he handed her just because he knew she needed it.

The sense of spinning wildly out of control that's gripped her ever since last week at the loft eventually drives her to the Life Café and a cheap coffee, hoping to distract herself with noise and people and anything that isn't Mark Cohen.

It doesn't work, of course, because Joanne knows very well that few things in her life seem to go according to plan. And her plan definitely does not involve Maureen sashaying into the café with her newest toy, a redhead younger than herself, looking awestruck at the bright fire that is Maureen, but that is exactly what happens. Maureen doesn't see Joanne, or maybe she does and she's just ignoring her, but either way, it fills Joanne with a vast sense of hurt. Maybe she hadn't loved Maureen, she reflects, but she certainly hadn't wanted to believe she was _quite_ so easy to replace.

The sight of her ex-girlfriend laughing coyly with the clueless girl who's been caught up in Maureen's dance sends a flash of jealousy and wounded anger through Joanne so strong it aches, because even if Joanne has let it go, it still _hurts_. The ache spreads and falls, settling in the pit of her gut and slowing reluctantly into a throbbing melancholy.

The fading emotions frighten Joanne more than anything, because she realizes that once her mandatory jealousy is flushed away, she is left with nothing but a tiny twinge of lust, a smidgeon of regret, and a demanding desire to talk to Mark.

The thought makes her freeze up as it worms its way insidiously into her mind, but somewhere inside her something is quieting as well. She was determined before to break free of all her restrictions, determined to cast away all the superficial defining qualities that shaded the way other people saw her when this whole mess began, and Joanne knows that 'lesbian' is just another term to hold her back and box her in.

And so, as Maureen's flirtatious coos swirl in her ear, she lets the label slide away from her and leaves it in a forgotten pile on the floor as she sets off to find Mark, smiling.

XXXXXXXX

She meets Mimi and Roger on her way up– they say they're off to a Life Support meeting, and then out for dinner. Joanne smiles and nods, ashamedly elated at the fact that the loft will be left alone to Mark again.

He's happy to see her, in an open, sincere way that makes Joanne feel warm from the inside out. He let's her in, and takes her coat in a gentlemanly fashion before tossing it haphazardly over Roger's guitar amp, which has Joanne laughing quietly. "In the mood for tea?" He asks her, already on his way to the kitchen, and she's enthralled with the fact that he doesn't even care why she's here– he's just glad she _is._ With everyone else, from her parents to Maureen, it's always been about the 'why's never the 'now's.

"Tea, Tequila, take your pick," She tells him, and he grins, putting a rusty green kettle on the sagging, lopsided stove, which makes an image so pathetic that she laughs again.

They both sit down at the kitchen table, and there's silence for a while. Mark's fidgeting a little, which amuses her, but bother's her, too. "What is it?"

He bites his lip, and Joanne suddenly wonders what it's like to kiss a man. She imagines men are harder and a little rougher, but mostly she thinks they're just different. "I...last week-" He starts out, stumbling over his own words, and she can tell he's working on a vague apology, since Mark likes vague unless he's forced into something else.

They both start at the whistle of the tea-kettle, which is more of an ill wheeze than anything, and Joanne watches as Mark blushes just a little and gets up quickly. He's so busy with the boiling water and the chipped mugs and the tea-bags that he doesn't even notice that Joanne has gotten right up behind him until he turns around to ask how much sugar she wants, and her mouth closes over his.

His lips aren't as full, like Joanne expected, but he's also rather stiff and awkward, which disappoints her a little until he gets his bearings and begins to kiss her back. And then there's a scrape of stubble, a warm sway, the soft slide of lips over lips, and then his hand is brushing over the delicate artwork on her back again, and Joanne knows she was right, it _is_ different kissing Mark, because she's not sure that kissing anyone else has ever felt so perfect.

XXXXXXXX

And later, when they're wrapped in the sheets and each other's arms, Mark kisses the tattoo gently, sweetly, nose rubbing over the feathery wings, and smiling. Joanne grins back at him, and pulls his mouth back up to hers, getting them lost in each other, and Joanne knows she is finally free from her cocoon as the orange and black of the monarch butterfly etched on her skin dances in the dark.

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Any errors are entirely my fault, as I have no beta. So, what did you think? Loved it? Hate it? Feel the sudden urge to be very, very ill? Leave me a review and tell me all about it.!Thanks for Reading! 


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